


Just A Girl

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Smut, Teasing, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23591803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Life under your mother's shadow as an apprentice healer is fairly dull. You live in the bubble of your little village, naive towards the ways of the larger world. When Geralt of Rivia requires your healing assistance, you begin to come into your own -- both as a woman, and an adventurer.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 13
Kudos: 180





	1. Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life under your mother's shadow as an apprentice healer is fairly dull. You live in the bubble of your little village, naive towards the ways of the larger world. When Geralt of Rivia requires your healing assistance, you begin to come into your own -- both as a woman, and an adventurer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a break, more or less, from writing short stories for about 7 years before The Witcher came along and bit me in the ass. This is the first of many short stories I've written, so it's a little rusty, but I'm uploading from my tumblr from the beginning. Enjoy!

It had been close to a decade since you had last seen the White Wolf. 

The last time fate had seen fit to cross your paths, you had been coming into your nineteenth year, all long limbs and quick temper; you were a slip of a girl shadowing your mother in her business as a healer. You’d known boys as disrespectful brutes that stole pinches of your backside when you were bending over to fetch apples at market, or as youthful romantics that would promise you the world between stolen-ale kisses, only to stray from your side as soon as another girl came into womanhood. Boys were a constant, and you learned how to fend them off early into your teens with the instruction of your no-nonsense mother and the help of your long-gone father’s old silver dagger – one of the few items you had left of his that your mother had not burnt or sold.

Yes, you knew of boys, but you hadn’t known of men until Geralt of Rivia crossed the threshold of your modest village house one crisp autumn afternoon.

Your mother had been out the front, as was the norm, leaving you to the more tedious tasks of keeping inventory, crushing herbs, hanging fresh bundles up for drying, and so on. The chime that guarded the door cheerfully sung as the Witcher pushed the door open, and you would not have bothered to poke your head out to look at the customer, had you not heard him speak.

“I have been bitten.” His voice was like crushed velvet meeting stone; like the rasp of a cat’s tongue, all rough barb with intention hidden in monotone. It was deep and enthralling and it was those four words that beckoned you to stand from your work-stool and hover in the doorway so you could see who spoke them.

Your mother partially obscured your view of the man, busy as she was seeing to his affliction, but she could not shield you from the view of his handsome leonine face; all sharp angles, dirtied and stubble-kissed, with snowdrift hair greyed by dirt and road-travel sneaking out from the leather strap which, you imagined, had once held it away from his features. You hadn’t realised you’d gasped until he looked over at you, and fixed molten-gold eyes upon your own. It felt like the world had shrunk down to a pin-point, to that moment between the two of you, and there was nothing beyond the thrum of electricity that pulsed in his stare and the fragile bird-feather beating of your heart.

And then he quirked a thick eyebrow at you in question, and you blinked your dry eyes and felt yourself colour crimson from the tips of your ears to your booted-toes. Hastily, you grabbed the first available object to make yourself appear busy, fidgeting with the vial your fingers had snatched.

“…should not have left a wound with basilisk venom untended for so long.” You caught the end of your mother’s sentence, finally tuning in and realising that this mysterious man, enormous as he may be, was in a bit of a pinch. You looked at him beyond the vision of his gorgeous face and realised that he was indeed quite ill. Sweat dotted his brow, and every now and then he’d sway, as if intoxicated, although he did not have the look of a man keen upon drink.

“I just need an elixir or two, perhaps a poultice, and I will be fine.” He gruffly rebutted, and inwardly you winced. Nobody back-talked your mother without consequence, especially a man, and you tried not to smile as you heard her clear her throat.

“Will you, Witcher?” She returned, her words were coloured with amusement, “Because I’d place your fever at… hmm, several degrees above ‘already in trouble’, and that second injury you’ve been trying to mask,” A gesture to his leg, “At two days before gangrene – three, if you’re very lucky. A poultice won’t cut it.” Your mother placed her hand on her cocked hip and looked up at him. You knew the stare she was bearing upon him; you’d been the recipient of it on more than one occasion.

This man – no, this Witcher, you’d since learned – pinched his teeth together and tried to stare your mother down, but it was fairly obvious that his mental faculties were suffering at this point, too. “I imagine you wish for me to stay, to get the most coin from me that you can. Is that it, healer?” It was an accusation, and a strike two for the warrior. You almost didn’t want to watch. Almost.

“I heal people,” Your mother’s words were that of a whip, quick and biting, “I do not rob them.”

“Hmm.” He replied, as if bested. You expected more.

“And to prove as much, I’ll treat you for the price of the potions and the poultice you might have bought. Including your board and meals, until you are healthy to my satisfaction.” Her voice had suddenly softened, and you were all but floored. Your mother never relented, not for anyone. Of course you had heard of Witchers, the tavern-talk about bright-eyed monsters that stalked other monsters, but you’d considered the tales rather lofty and had never paid them mind. Now you wondered what was so special about this individual that your mother might make exceptions for him.

“Y/N!” She called, and you fumbled with the vial, saving it from becoming pieces upon the floor by a hair, scuttling out from your hiding place to stand behind her. “Take this man’s things upstairs to our treatment room.” You exchanged a sidelong look with her – of course she’d known you were eavesdropping – and with a rueful half-smile you curtsied.

“I can manage them.” The stranger insisted gruffly, shouldering his belongings possessively as you went to touch them. Again you met his gaze, and again you swallowed thickly. “But I would appreciate it if you saw my horse taken care of.”

“Horse?” You parroted, like a simpleton, until you glanced out the window and caught sight of a chestnut mare patiently waiting, untethered, trained like a well-behaved dog. Your work-horse would have wandered off by now to eat the neighbour’s garden. “Oh! Yes, sir. I shall see her stabled immediately.”

As you went to make good on your word, he spoke again, halfway up the stairs, your mother leading him. “Geralt.” He corrected, “I am no knight.”

“Oh.” Again, reduced to single syllables, with your hand on the doorknob. “Geralt, then.”

There was a smile in his eyes, but not on his mouth. “Take care of Roach.” It was a command, delivered kindly, and you stared shamelessly as he moved again, his steps graceful, until your brain re-emerged from the hormones it had been buried beneath and demanded that you carry out your job.

You had always been good with animals, and this horse was no exception. “Roach, is it?” You asked of the mare, taking her bridle and smiling, “A peculiar name he has given you, but it seems he is a peculiar man.” You walked her towards your small stables where your lazy grey gelding was currently half-dozing, and noted that she could do with a good brushing. Once within the warm structure, you lead her into a stall – reprimanding Pebble, your horse, for nosing her – and poured out feed into a trough, as well as a splash of fresh well-water. You picked up the tools to see to her grooming and hummed as you worked, brushing down her coat, working the tangles from her mane, and checking her shoes for stuck debris.

She was docile and seemed to enjoy the attention, only glancing up from her feed to whicker at Pebble, who was suddenly jealous that he was not getting brushed – even though the idiot hated grooming time – and it did not take you long to have her clean and content. From the supply cupboard you plucked out two over-ripe apples and brought them to each horse as a treat. “Be good to Miss Roach, Pebble,” You told him, letting him snatch the apple from your hand, “She is our guest.” He snorted at you as if he understood, but you just hoped that the bribery would work, and the two would not bicker in the stable. It was not terribly large.

The sun had long set by the time you emerged, dusty and tired of arm, and you entered your house again to find dinner set out for you. Your stomach rejoiced at the sight of the cold cuts of meat and the generous wedge of sourdough bread, but before you could try and sneak it away to your room to stuff your face – and press your ear against the wall in an attempt to hear the Witcher – your mother appeared, clicking her tongue.

“That man is as stubborn as they say.” She mused, mostly to herself, wiping her hands on her apron. It was smeared with various oils and scented herbal pastes, as well as bright spots of blood. Suddenly you were annoyed you had missed out upon the chance to learn how to treat a long-standing basilisk infection, demoted to the rank of stable-girl instead.

“Mama, what makes him so special?” You asked, tearing a piece off the bread and sticking it in your face. “Why’d you let him stay for free?”

“Don’t speak with food in your mouth, little bird.” Was her answer, before she frowned, and wiped a smudge away from your cheek with her thumb. Perhaps she’d just spent hours tending to infected wounds, cutting away flesh, sewing skin together, but aside from her stained apron she was as meticulously groomed as ever. You wished you could present like your mother, the beauty that she was, but you had too much of your father’s carelessness. At least, that is what she’d tell you – after first denying her beauty.

“He is Geralt of Rivia.” She finally did tell you, as if you hadn’t already discovered that information. Your blank stare made her sigh, and she pottered about the kitchen, preparing another plate. “Not all of the tales the drunkards tell are tall, Y/N. He is the White Wolf, a slayer of evil beasts. A friend to us. A Witcher. He does the jobs nobody else wants to do, and it keeps us safe.” A plate was set down before you, laden with your best cheeses and meats, as well as the last of the grapes. “A Witcher much like him killed the wraith that took your father in the forest. I have nothing but respect for his kind.”

Your mouth hung open as she divulged this secret; rarely did she speak of your father, and rarely did you ask her to. When he’d vanished, she’d nearly come undone completely. The only way for her to move on from him had been to purge his memory from the house, and to wall off her heart. Never again would she love, you’d heard her swear one night, after too much strawberry wine. Never again would she hurt like this.

“Close your mouth before a fly gets in.” She instructed you, but her tone was lighter, and she shook her head. She could tell you wanted to ask eight hundred questions, and you could tell she didn’t want to answer a single one. The plate was pushed further toward you.

“Mama–”

“Y/N, the Witcher needs food to recover well. You will take this up to him, and you will make sure he eats. Whilst you are there, address his fever as you have been taught.” A simple task, and an end to the conversation. You sighed melodramatically, but snatched up the plate and the pitcher of water placed before you.

You took the stairs two at a time, as was your custom, and made your way down the narrow hall to the guest room that served as an infirmary. With no spare hands, you knocked using the edge of the pitcher. “Si– Geralt?” You corrected yourself, “It is Y/N. I have supper.”

No response.

A frown struck your brow, and you skilfully used your knee to open the door, nudging your way inside with your delivery, finding him almost comically taking up the entirety of the single bed, with his feet hanging off the end. The second thing that you noticed was the fact that he was, save for a simple cotton undergarment, entirely void of clothing. Shirtless, he was even more God-like, and you nearly let the water slosh over the edge of the jug as you carried it towards him. He was silent, but watching you, his eyes less vibrant than before. Mother must have given him something for the pain, you thought. Bandages dressed his right forearm and his left thigh, and you could smell the herbs beneath them.

“Roach–” Was the first thing he said to you, and you set the food beside him.

“–is sheltered and warm in our stables, with Pebble for company. He’s a grumpy old man, but, er–” He was doing that thing with his eyebrow again, and you cut yourself off before you rambled. “I have brought you supper. You need to eat.”

“I am not very hungry.” That voice, that voice; even refusing your orders it was as the beautiful roughness of yew bark beneath your fingers.

“I’m afraid it’s not up for negotiation, Geralt of Rivia.” You informed him, almost sing-song; he recognised the message beneath your words, the threat that you’d tell your mother on him, and he grunted, before reaching for the grapes. Satisfied that he was eating, you moved over to the bowl of water and witch-hazel, fetching a clean cloth. There was nowhere on the bed for you to sit, and so you knelt beside him.

“May I?” You asked, holding up the damp cloth, and he shrugged noncommittally. You wiped at the sweat on his brow, effectively cleaning away some of the dirt, and felt for his temperature. Still too high. For something like this, sweating out was the best course of action. You realised this was why mother had given you such a large jug of water.

“Your mother missed her calling as a politician.” He remarked, as you stood up again. When you tilted your head in question, he continued, “She is single-minded. Doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no’.”

As you gathered wood for the fire, you had to laugh, although you were sure he meant to insult her. “It is true,” You agreed, “She’s stubborn, and fierce, and she can be cold. But she is the best person I’ve ever known.” Kneeling, you arranged the kindling, and heard him murmur behind you; you were not sure if he agreed, or if it was just a general acknowledgement that you’d spoken. “I hope you are eating that ham, Geralt of Rivia. I want a clean plate.”

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I see.” He quipped, words just a little slurred. When you struck the flint, he frowned. “It’s already hotter than the noon sun at summer, girl, why are you lighting a fire? And stop calling me 'Geralt of Rivia’.”

Again you struck the flint, and the sparks caught the dry kindling. You blew on them and soon a cheerful fire danced to life, beginning to lick the logs that would fuel it. “I am told I am more like my father, actually.” Standing, you brushed your hands on your apron. “Your fever is too high. In order to break it, you must sweat the poison out. And I am not a girl, Geralt of Rivia.” You used his name like a weapon, defiant and grinning. He groaned, and fell back against the down pillows.

“Figures I’d find a healer’s house full of harpies.” You rolled your eyes at his complaint, picked up a slice of the ham, and thrust it at him. He blinked lazily at you, hesitant, but took the meat and began to eat. As the fire caught and warmed the room, you wet the rag again and daubed the sweat from his face.

Uncomfortable, and apparently shameless, he tugged at the sheets covering him until they pooled at his waist, and you could not help but stare at the map of muscle and scar that was his chest, sweat-slick in the firelight, adorned with coarse hair that your fingers were aching to run through. You had to clench your fist to stop the tingling in your hand.

“You are far too young to be staring at a man the way you are, Y/N.” Amusement wove between his words. He was mocking you.

“I’m not too– I wasn’t staring.” Too quickly you tried to address one of his two accusations, and failed miserably at both. You tore your eyes from him, suddenly very interested in the witch-hazel water. “I am nearly nineteen winters. I will be a qualified healer by my twentieth year.” Some of the water dripped into your lap, but you pretended not to notice. He grunted again, and you began to wipe away the fever-sweat and dirt at his neck and collar, trying to keep your hand from trembling. Gods, could you be any more obvious?

“At least I’m not the only warm one in here.” He jabbed, half-closing his eyes as you worked, and you felt your blush flare further at his taunt. Damn it.

“Eat your ham.” You ordered, crossly, and for the first time he smiled at you. If you weren’t so flustered, it might have taken your breath away, but you were trying very hard to look like a busy, competent, skilled woman – not like the fumbling fool of a girl he made you feel.

Silently, he worked on his plate, and silently you bathed him as best you could, pausing only to refill the basin of water and replenish his jug. Thankfully, you didn’t need to coax him into drinking. It was halfway through the second round of water that he began to finally doze, and you waited for his breathing to become even slower and deeper before you allowed yourself to truly look at him.

He was a roadmap of scars, of stories; each mark was a battle fought and won, and judging by your mother’s praise, each one probably meant lives saved, or bettered. Your hand tingled again, and you resisted the urge to trace them. He was right, really. You were a girl; you knew little of the world outside your village. You knew little of men, and how to get the attention of one. Not boys – not the boys that tormented you on a near-daily basis, Gods you knew enough about them. How did one go about earning the affections of a man such as the one slumbering before you?

Honestly, you had no clue. Asking your mother would lead to a lecture about how men would only hurt you in the end, and all of your friends shared the same tales about boys, the things you already knew. A sigh filtered between your lips, and you got up again to fetch more wood, and more water.

A fever such as his needed to be watched, and judging by the movement of the waxing moon, it was heading into the early hours before dawn. You were exhausted, but you also knew this was a test. This much was confirmed when you passed your mother’s rooms and saw the darkness beneath the door, her lantern long snuffed out. You were to tend to this patient as if she were not there.

When the sun crested over the hilltop, and a rooster crowed distantly, his torment had nearly ceased. He muttered nonsense in his sleep, as you replaced rags for cooler ones and took his sweat-soaked sheet away, trading it for another. Occasionally you awoke him to have him drink, and each time he gulped greedily from the jug, eyed you with a level stare, and succumbed to slumber again. By the time it was mid-morning, you had officially been awake for far too long, but the temperature of his skin had lowered enough to satisfy you that the worst of his fever was over. After fetching him water one more time, you allowed yourself a respite, and dozed on the floor beside him.

When you awoke, it was to his eyes upon you, and you sat up with a start. The light outside told you that it was nearing evening, and the platter of food on the stand beside the bed told you that your mother had just visited, kind enough to save you a trip to the kitchen. You dragged a hand across your eyes. “I’m sorry, have you been awake long? How are you feeling?” Sleepiness made your tongue thick and lazy.

“Not long. Better.” His words were short, but his eyes were brighter, and you noticed he had a piece of cheese in his hand. Appetite returning, you noted. A good sign. You reached for a piece of bread, leaving the more nutritious food for him to take his fill, and gnawed on it as you stood up.

“I am glad to hear it.” You yawned, unladylike and unapologetic, and you made your way over to a wooden basin leaning against the far wall. You loved the infirmary tub because it was so large, but now you were wondering if it was indeed big enough for the Witcher. He seemed to be thinking the same thing as he watched you wrestle it to the ground.

“I don’t wish to trouble you–” His words were gruff, like a small truce, and you scoffed as the large object thudded in front of the fireplace.

“Yes you do, Geralt of Rivia.” Your retort was cheeky, “You wish to come here, to the house of harpies – I’m telling mother to change our name, by the way – and deplete us of all we have. A war of attrition. If we have no food for the winter because mister fancy pants here has eaten it all, the harpies will starve.”

You thought your tone had been light enough, but he grunted in displeasure, and threw the crisp sheet away from his body. “No. I told your mother that there was no need for this, that I didn’t have to stay– urgghh.” He grunted as he tried to push himself up off the bed, and you were by his side in a flash. “Fuck.” The curse was a hiss.

“Geralt, no, I’m sorry. I was teasing. We have plenty – more than enough, actually. Don’t worry. Please.” You looked so distressed that he must have softened, and he laid back against the pillows with a sigh. Relieved, you drew the sheet back up his body. “I’m… well, my mother says I should think before I speak, but I never quite know how to. She is so stoic and graceful and I try to be an example, I really do, but I’m just… well. Just me.”

He listened to you as you fussed, and made another small sound, thoughtful. But he said nothing more.

You went to boil water for the bath, assuring him you’d return as soon as possible. By the time you closed the door, his eyes were already shut.

Filling such a large tub took time, and many steaming buckets heaved up the stairs, but you were proud that you barely made a mess, and you added salts and herbs to the water, wishing you’d get the indulgence. You probably still smelled like horses. “Geralt.” You prodded him, when the water was ready. “Wake up. I need to change your sheets, and it’s a good opportunity for you to clean yourself.”

“Thought that was what you were doing with that rag last night.” He murmured, not opening his eyes, and you frowned.

“No, I was just scraping off the top layer of… whatever you’re coated in. You need a good soak. C'mon, it’ll feel good.” Your voice had lowered to a coaxing coo, and something about it made his eyes open and fix upon you, heat present for a heartbeat, before he relented and began to push himself off the small bed. When he was standing, you went about gathering his sheets, until you realised he was pulling his sleep drawers off whilst you were still there. You cleared your throat loudly. “I’ll just be a moment.” Oh Gods, you wanted to turn around and look.

“I thought you weren’t a girl.” Velvety voice was teasing, again, and something about the taunt made you want to take off your boot and throw it at him. But that would mean turning around.

“I am not.” Ground out words from between tight teeth. “But I value a person’s privacy.”

“And I don’t care.”

“Fine then.” Gods, he was a donkey’s ass, as your mother promised. You finished bundling the dirty sheets and turned around in time to see him sink into the bath with a groan that made you clutch your bundle hand enough to whiten your knuckles. He’s big everywhere. And damn it, you were blushing again. He sighed blissfully, slowly opened those captivating eyes, and caught your gaze. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m going to get more sheets.” You declared, almost as monotone as he could be, and forced your feet to move out of the room and to the laundry area. Your mother was there, folding cloth, and she took one look at your bright red face and scoffed.

“He’s just a man, Y/N. You’ll get used to this.” Her words were meant to soothe you, you knew, but you also knew that there’s no way you’ll ever get used to someone like Geralt. Just a man. He’s the only man you’d ever met.

“Mmmh.” You muttered your agreement, almost like a certain gold-eyed guest, and snatched up a new set of sheets, bandages, and towels. “I need to change his dressings.” It felt like stating the obvious had become your shield, suddenly, and your mother leveled you with a searching stare, before nodding. Perhaps she was questioning her decision in letting Geralt’s care fall to you, but it was too late now.

Back up the stairs, you heard the splashing of bathwater, and were pleased that he was actually washing himself. You were afraid you’d have to bully him into doing that, too. He paused for a moment upon your entry, but then returned to scrubbing his good leg.

“I’ll change the bandage on your leg when you’re done. I can change the one on your arm now.” The crisp sheets flew outwards like a sailboat’s cloth, before settling on the bed as you made it up anew. Again, he was silent, but you heard the tell-tale splashing that indicated his dedication to getting clean. Once the bed was neat – complete with blanket, now that he was without fever – you worked up the courage to turn around with your supplies, keeping your gaze above water-level as you knelt beside the tub. His eyes were trained upon you, magnetic, and wordlessly he offered his right arm.

You unwrapped the old bandage, noting your mother’s excellent suturing, and secretly thrilled that she hadn’t asked you to do that part – you stitched sloppily, and mother’s patients always healed slightly faster than yours. You wondered when you’d come into your own like her, as you wiped away the herbal poultice gently, replacing it with another. With care, you began to bandage his arm back up, so that the herbs would speed his healing and soothe any lingering pain. When you were done, your work was neat and tight enough to sit well without being uncomfortable. You chanced a glance up.

He was still staring, but something of his features had relaxed a touch. “You have very gentle hands.”

At this, you smiled a little. “Thank you.” You murmured humbly, placing the old rags in a basket to take downstairs. “My mother taught me well.”

“No.” He corrected, curling one finger to hook beneath your chin, and you felt your lips soften and part with an intake of breath. “A gentle touch cannot be taught. It either takes years of work, or it is a gift. It is your own.”

The idea that he had just gifted you this – a part of yourself that you could boast, separate from your intimidatingly skillful mother – was something so precious that you had nothing clever to say; you were void of taunting retorts and jest. Instead, you just stared at him, glossy eyes wide with thanks, trading breath in the small space between you. His eyes were hooded, and unbidden you leaned forward, brushing your lips against his own, the delicious stubble of his upper lip grazing you–

–until he jerked back, making the water slosh over the side. “No, Y/N.” He said, simply, harshly.

You were left shocked in the rejection, a coldness creeping around your entire body as he frowned and cursed, rubbing his face. “I-I’m sorry, I thought that–”

“What did you think? You thought you’d want to be with someone like me, hmm? You’d want your first time to be with a man covered in bandages and filth? A man who has no home, who has no allegiances, who has no feelings?” Angrily, he shot his gaze to the side. “I would not dishonour you in that way. Not under your mother’s roof. Not whilst you are still just a girl.”

Hot shame pricked tears into your eyes, and thoroughly chastised, you looked at your hands in your lap. You didn’t trust your voice not to waver when you spoke, but you did anyway. “If you have no feelings, then why are you so disgusted?”

“Fuck’s sake, Y/N.” He growled, “I’m not disgusted at you. I'm—” He searched for the right thing to say, and then angrily heaved himself from the water, grabbing a towel to cover himself. Suddenly, modesty was paramount. “I’m not a good man. Not for you.”

Don’t cry, you told yourself. Oh Gods, don’t let him see that you really are just a girl, just a timid scrap of a person; a poor imitation of your mother, and haunted by the genetics of your father. Don’t let him know that you think he’s one of the best people you’ve ever met, that his scars fascinate you, that his life fills you with inspiration. A damnable tear snuck down your left cheek anyway.

Dumbly, you got to your feet, avoiding looking at him, even if you could feel him everywhere – even if you could still feel his lips almost against your own, almost making you alive and real. “I shall get my mother to see to your leg.” Who was speaking? Was that your voice?

“I am well enough to leave.” He’d been pulling on his clothes the whole time; your mother must have laundered them the night before. “I will see her for payment on my way out.”

Like a marionette, your head bobbed with a nod. You heard him curse again, beneath his breath. He paused as if he had something else to add, but then he growled lowly and hefted his bag up onto his left shoulder. You just stood there, too ashamed of what never happened to acknowledge the fact that he was leaving.

“This is for– thank you for– ah, fuck.” Parting words, the sound of something clattering on the table, and then the squeak of the door hinges. The sound made you flinch, but you still couldn’t move.

You could hear the low timbre of his voice as he spoke to your mother, probably thanking her, probably telling her to sell her daughter to the whore house now whilst she’s still worth something, because she’s a rubbish healer. Self-pityingly, you choked on a sob, and placed your hands over your mouth. The front door of your house shut, and it fell silent.

And then you cried.

When there was nothing left but hiccups and sniffles, you cast your bleary eyes to the nightstand, your heart aching but your curiosity still intact.

It was a perfectly round stone, pale grey in colour, smooth and glossy. Upon closer inspection, you saw it shot through with veins of gold. You had no idea what it was, or how much it was worth, but it was beautiful. Your right hand curled tightly around it, and you held it to your lips.

—————————————————————–

He heard you, as he saddled Roach. The guest room window was above the stables. Every sob was another punch to the gut, another reminder that he was as bad as the monsters he fought. He’d hurt you. It was better that he did it now.

Roach’s hooves drummed a steady beat as he walked out of your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate comments! You can find my ramblings on Tumblr, my username is witchernonsense. :}


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has passed since Geralt walked out of your door. He left a girl behind; years later, he finds a woman. Geralt's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a break, more or less, from writing short stories for about 7 years before The Witcher came along and bit me in the ass. This is the first of many short stories I've written, so it's a little rusty, but I'm uploading from my tumblr from the beginning. Enjoy!

_It had been close to a decade since you had last seen the White Wolf._

——————–

Geralt dismounted Roach with the slightest of grunts, bolstered by the sight of the busy tavern in front of him. Sometimes he preferred the anonymity that larger cities provided; if he kept his cloak up and stuck to the alleys or the periphery of a room, less people bothered him. He nudged the dozing stable-hand awake, pressed a coin into his palm, and wordlessly inclined his head to Roach behind him. The boy scarpered to his feet. Geralt gave his faithful mare a parting pat on the neck, and stepped into the warmth of the building.

Inside, there was a roar of people cavorting and eating and drinking, oblivious to the world outside, and although it was warm the Witcher did not shrug the hood back from his face. He chose a spot quite close to the door, a shadowy corner untouched by the braziers and the blazing fireplace, and settled in to watch the crowd. It was best to get a read on an inn before you committed to sleeping in it, he thought. Especially when you were an outsider. Especially when you were a mutant.

One of the tavern girls was by in short order to offer him a hefty mug of ale, and he murmured his intentions to stay for the evening, only to be met with a snort. “You and everybody else in this place want a room, Witcher. Are you blind? We’re full.” She gestured vaguely to the room behind her, and he set his mouth in a hard line. This was the second place he’d tried for accommodation, and the likelihood of him roughing it overnight in a stable or someone’s garden was increasing. He dismissed the girl with a grunt, and she flounced away, distracted by the glint of another patron’s coin.

“…And so I’m there, two polished jade orbs from the dragon’s abandoned cache in my left hand, sword in my right, the tip of which was resting between the bandit’s legs.” A voice filtered through the general chaos of the place, and he realised that the majority of the crowd – largely male – were gathered around someone telling a story. He swallowed from his mug and listened. “He threatens to gut me where I stand – not sure how he’d manage such a feat, what with his blade halfway across the cave – and I grin and him and say, ‘I planned on leaving here with two balls, friend.'” There’s an amused ripple across the gathering, “But I won’t hesitate to make it four.”

The crowd erupts into riotous laughter, with mugs clinking in toast and some younger individuals, Geralt noted, crossing their legs in sympathy. He almost smiled, the corners of his mouth threatening to betray him, until there was a part in the crowd, and his keen gaze fell upon the storyteller.

She was _radiant._ There was simply no other way to describe her. Bathed in a halo of the fireglow behind her, she was chuckling and accepting offers of drink, flushed with life and light and Gods, she commanded the whole room. Somehow there was a familiarity about her that tugged at the back of his mind, but for the most part, he simply couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Someone said something into the shell of her ear and she threw her head back and laughed with freedom, her glossy hair swaying down her back as she did so, and he realised anew why she had drawn such a crowd. Had he not known better, he’d have thought her some manner of siren or nymph.

“You’ve got another admirer, Y/N.” A man announced, all jest in his drunkenness. Geralt flicked his eyes to the stout lush and glared, but the threat escaped the other man as he nudged her. “A Witcher, no less. Hah!” He clapped her on the back as she fixed the weight of her gaze upon this 'admirer’ in the corner, and he watched her freeze up, fingertips tight on the edge of the table.

“Fuck.” He uttered, beneath his breath, like a boy found out with his hand in the cookie jar, and he finally ripped his gaze away, bringing his drink back to his lips. Maybe nothing further would come of this. _But where had he heard that name…?_

“That is no way to speak of a warrior, Jorren.” The enigmatic woman chastised, clipping the bearded fool with her hand across the back of his head in the same moment that she stood, and he knew this wasn’t going to die quietly. Double fuck. “We have a hero among us this evening!” She declared, raising her foaming drink high, “And we drink to his health. To the Witcher!”

“To the Witcher!” The delighted crowd copied her salute, but they were drunk enough that he supposed they’d declare undying allegiance to a forest frog if she asked them to. He shrunk further into his cloak, as if the massive bulk of him could vanish if he just sat still enough. Around him, people began to laugh and talk again, and he heard the strum of a lute as the bard began to play. He examined the few bubbles still skimming the surface of his nearly-empty tankard, and tried his best to ignore the footsteps that approached him. No doubt some fool wanting to hear a battle story, or a youth wishing to pepper him with questions, or worse – some down-and-out villager with a drawn-out plea that would end in something along the lines of 'will you work for free’.

He was not expecting the weight of a person in his lap, and he almost sloshed the dregs of his drink in surprise, grunting with displeasure as his gaze snapped up, fierce and accusing. 

It was the storyteller, the glowing goddess; she’d helped herself to his thighs as a perch, and her pretty smile made him realise that he absolutely didn’t care that there was room beside him to sit. So long as she kept staring at him like that, she could live in his lap.

“Hello, Geralt of Rivia.” She purred, and he’d never heard his name spoken like spun-silk so effortlessly before, spilt from plush lips that were wine-reddened. It didn’t surprise him that she knew his name; it preceded his travels, and he was used to the recognition, as much as he detested it.

“Hello.” He replied, intending to sound stand-offish, but instead finding the gravel of his voice rather warm. “Y/N, is it?” The tavern girl came by again, delivering fresh ale, but he found his hand moving to the curve of her waist instead of the handle of the tankard. It was just to steady her in his lap, he told himself.

Something flitted across her face, something he didn’t understand, but it was momentary; the flirt returned to her half-lidded gaze, and she tilted her head, nodding in affirmation. “That’s me, yes.” Her hand went to his own around her waist, and he thought she might push it off, but instead she shifted in his lap, moving closer to him, sipping from her ale.

“You don’t like regular seats?” He asked, amused, finally allowing the emotion to register on his face. She was warm beneath his hand, and he resisted the urge to trace the slope of her hips. Gods, how long had it been since he had last lain with a woman? The roads had been long, and the ache between his legs told him that he was well overdue for relief.

“Why would I sit on a dirty old tavern chair when I could sit on my very own Witcher throne?” She retorted, and flicked his cloak hood back with her fingers. Her hand brushed against his cheek when she tucked a stray strand of long hair behind one of his ears, and he murmured at the small contact. “And the White Wolf himself. No, I am happier here, but I thank you for being interested in the location of my behind.” As if to punctuate her sentence, she wriggled the spoken asset, and he felt his cock twitch again; _it_ certainly was interested.

“You’re welcome.” Finally picking up his ale, he hid his smirk into the rim of the tankard. “Just so long as you don’t have two jade balls in your left hand, I do not mind the warm lap.”

She giggled sweetly, and he felt something inside him stir at the sound. Did she know how enchanting she was? She _had_ to have known; and yet, Geralt didn’t suspect she used her wiles for malevolent gain. “I am without blade, Geralt of Rivia. I promise.”

“Don’t call me 'Geralt of Rivia’.” He told her, and again, something in the back of his mind tingled; an old memory, the smell of linen and herbs…

“What _should_ I call you?” She asked, leaning forward, toying with the laces of his shirt. He heard the jingle of a necklace loose itself from her blouse, dangling between them, but he was far too lost in her eyes to pay the jewellery any real heed. Her pupils were large in the dark corner they were sequestered in, and the hunger of her expression made him want to throw her over his shoulder and take her to the first room he found, regardless of occupancy.

“Anything you want to.” The timbre of his voice had lowered to a growl, and he could feel the quickening of her heartbeat. His fingers flexed on her waist as he leaned in to close the distance between them, finally seeking to capture those berry lips in a heated kiss, the hitch of her breath satisfying as his lips brushed–

–and she jerked away, leaving his lap empty as she stood before him, one hip cocked.

“What the fu–”  
  
“No, Geralt.” She said simply, harshly. He stared at her like a simple man once kicked in the head by a mule.

“What did you think, hmm? That you’d want to be with someone like me? Just a sad little girl?” Her words were mocking and sharp, and there was revenge on her mouth. He opened and closed his own like a caught fish. “I’m not a good woman. Not for you.”

The firelight glinted across her exposed necklace and he blinked at it, the pale grey stone polished to a shine, struck through with veins of gold, and suddenly clarity hit him with the force of a cold wave slapping against his face. So long ago; a healer’s daughter, an uncertain girl with an infatuation, an almost-kiss that he’d _so badly_ wanted to fall into, but had rejected. Oh, Gods. She’d grown into this vision, a fiercely delightful flame of a woman, and now she was throwing old words back into his face.

By the time all of this had processed, she was halfway up the stairs, and he shoved himself to stand. “ **Y/N!** ” He called after her, his voice loud enough to draw attention to the whole tavern that turned to gawk at him, all bristling and fist-clenching, before they began to poke each other in the ribs and jest, mocking him. He didn’t even notice; single-minded, he pursued her up the stairs, shouldering patrons out of his way.

“Y/N.” Again he asked for her, and she almost paused mid-step in the hallway, before continuing without so much as sparing him a glance over the curve of her shoulder. He snarled like a wolf chasing prey, and stalked after her, too overcome with the events that had transpired to fully recognise that he had nowhere to take her to speak privately; instead, once beside her, he circled her wrist with his large hand and yanked her into a small curtained-off area, a place clearly reserved for exclusive guests. Before he knew what he was doing, he pushed her up against the wall, hard, and bore his smelted gaze into her own. “What the fuck was that, Y/N?”

She was breathless from the quick movement, the air pushed from her lungs between the wall and the wall of muscle that he made up, but she was grinning. “What’s got you all riled up, _Witcher?_ ” Her voice was musical, even breathy, and she slipped a hand between his legs to squeeze his clothed cock. It strained against her fingers and pulsed, hard, and he suppressed a low moan. “Surely you’re not angry over a mere girl.”

“ _Not while you’re still just a girl._ ” His words from the past echoed in his head, haunting, but the hand that was on him belonged to a woman, and it was clouding his thinking. “I was protecting you.” He ground out, simultaneously torn between thrusting his length further into her grip, and pulling her hand away. She saved him the trouble by releasing him. “Damn it, Y/N. Of course I wanted you. But you were so unsullied and naïve and I didn’t want to ruin–”

“Did you think about what _I_ wanted?” She interrupted, her words venomous, the smile now vanished from her lips. “Did you think about how I felt? That maybe I should get a say regarding my 'virtue’ that you were so stoically protecting? That I should choose who gets the privilege of touching my body, my heart?”

“Y/N…”

“No. I should thank you, really, Geralt. After you refused me that night, after you made me feel so inferior and small and stupid, I made an oath. I vowed I would never feel like that again. I swore no man that walked this world would ever make me feel like _you_ did.” Her fingers moved to the necklace, to that stone he had left her so many years ago. “I had this made into a necklace so that I’d always remember who I am. I’d always carry the lesson with me.” Fist clenched around the charm, and she smirked. “But do you know what? I don’t think I need it anymore.”

With a hard tug, the jewellery tumbled free from her elegant neck, and she shoved it at his chest. Dumbly, he released his hold on her to catch it, as she stepped away from him. His eyebrows were knitted together, and for the second time that evening, the famous Witcher had nothing clever to say.

Leaving him with the relic of her past, she stormed away from him, and this time he was wise enough not to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate comments! You can find my ramblings on Tumblr, my username is witchernonsense. :}


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can he leave you after that? After all you've become? After how blind he was?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a break, more or less, from writing short stories for about 7 years before The Witcher came along and bit me in the ass. This is the first of many short stories I've written, so it's a little rusty, but I'm uploading from my tumblr from the beginning. Enjoy!

Your eyes fly open in the middle of the night. You know instinctively that you are not alone in your inn room any longer. Slowly, one hand inches beneath the pillow beside you to touch the dagger you’ve hidden there, when the presence makes the softest noise, and you realise just who it is seated in the over-stuffed chair in the corner. You breathe a sigh.

“What are you doing in my room, Geralt?”

He would have known by the change in your breathing that you were awake, but he has the good grace to clear his throat a little, as if caught out. “There are all sorts of unsavoury men staying here tonight. I wanted to make sure you were safe.” His voice is all kinds of almost: almost an apology, almost a wish, almost a promise. That’s exactly what you have been with him – _almost._

“Yeah,” You agree, stretching sleepily, “I know. There’s a Witcher here, I heard.” You laugh humourlessly, but he does not join you. He simply grunts, and shifts slightly in the chair.

“Did it ever occur to you, Geralt of Rivia,” Sitting up, the sheet covering your body falls and pools at your waist, “That I might not _need_ protecting? That I am actually wholly capable of caring for myself? It’s been, what, ten years since I saw you last? I’m not just surviving, I’m _living._ And–” You cut yourself off when you note the glitter of his eyes has widened, and he’s staring blatantly at your exposed breasts, his fingers clenched on the armrests of the chair. “–What? It’s warm tonight.”

He clears his throat again, this time with purpose, and manages to capture your gaze, his jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to watch you tonight as a gesture of offence, Y/N. I just… I’ve felt… since I met you, I’ve felt like…”

“What?” Crossly, you shove the sheets away and stand up so that you may confront him. You are all woman in the high moonlight, ample curves that glow ethereal, brilliantly exposed before a man that you were once too frightened to even properly look in the eye. “You’ve felt like I’m too young? Too stupid? _Just a girl?_ ”

“I’ve felt like you were **important.** ” He snaps, pushing himself to stand as well, and he towers over you, muscles whip-tight with unspent energy. The electricity in the air crackles between you, refusing to be ignored, stinging your skin. “So I ran. I ran from you, like an idiot. I should have kissed you that day, but I didn’t, and I’m _sorry_ , and I’m stupi–”

But he can’t finish his rambling apology, because you’ve taken two large strides towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck as your mouth finally meets his, urgent. It feels like the answer to a long-asked question, like a missing cog in clockwork, and you know he feels the same way when he engulfs your body in his massive arms and moans into your mouth, kissing you fearlessly; you lick at the heat of his mouth and graze his lower lip with your teeth and he sucks your tongue, laves your cupid’s bow, leaves you stubble-scratched and panting. You only part for oxygen, which seems like an afterthought, and when his eyes meet your own again, they are ablaze. A shudder thrills through your body, despite the warmth of the room. Shifting your arms from their perch on his shoulders, you place your palms against his chest, and shove at him; he could resist your strength if he wanted to, but he collapses back into the chair obediently.

“Y/N, what are–” His voice is burnt-honey, smokey and delicious. You want to fucking devour this man.

“ _Shh._ ” You tell him, quite content to not let him finish a damn sentence this evening as you drop to your knees and part his thighs with your palms, making yourself comfortable between them. He’s straining against the cloth of his breeches, and you wet your lips with intention. The sound of his breath hitches as he realises exactly what that intention is. He goes to speak again, probably to tell you that you don’t have to, or something else you don’t want to hear, but you lock your eyes with his, and the intensity of your dark gaze shuts him up. “I want you to lace your hands behind your head, Geralt.” You purr, “And I want you to keep them there. If you move them, I swear to the Gods that I will kick you out of this room without remorse. Am I clear?”

He sets his mouth in a hard line and narrows his eyes like a glinting gold knife-edge, but slowly, he raises his arms. As he does so, you tug at the hemline of his shirt and pull the garment free from his body, discarding it behind you. His large fingers knit together behind his skull, and silently, he regards you; perhaps you are on your knees, but you are powerful there, and both of you know it. Smirking, you slide your hands up his legs, over the washboard definition of his abdomen, and through the coarse hair of his chest, finally feeling the scratch of it against your greedy fingertips. He makes a sound that could be pleasure or impatience, but he doesn’t move, and his eyes do not shift from your own.

Your hands are at the tie of his breeches next, skillfully making work of the double knot there and unlacing them with ease, and his thick cock springs free of its cloth prison at last. He exhales sharply with relief, only to draw in a breath between pinched teeth as your hand circles his impressive shaft, stroking, rubbing a bead of pre-come ‘round the ridge of his head like a precious elixir. “I’ve heard Witchers have great stamina,” You tell him, and his gaze turns questioning, “I want to know for myself.”

Bare breasts brush his thighs as you push yourself up, your tongue flat on the underside of his length as you lick upwards, and he flexes his legs with a low rumble. It isn’t enough of a reaction, and so you waste no time in parting your plush lips and taking him in your mouth, your practiced throat relaxing and near-hilting him in one swallow.

“ **Fuck,** Y/N!” He hisses, as he instinctively jerks forward, his hands almost leaving his head to cradle your own ‘til he obviously remembers your threat and fists his hair instead. You suckle at him deliberately as you draw him back out of your mouth, delighting as his abs clench and his cock throbs powerfully against your tongue. Maybe now would be a good time for some clever remark, but in all honesty, you just want to hear him moan.

You get your wish as you pleasure him with purpose, bobbing your head in his lap as you stroke him with your tongue, your kiss-swollen lips tight on his flesh. He freely lets you know exactly how much he’s enjoying your attention with wanting groans, his whole body taut as a bow-string, his hands an absolute mess in the mane of his pale hair. You hum appreciatively around the base of his cock as you draw him in again, one free hand cupping his balls, gently toying.

The shudder of his body tells you that he’s trying to hold out, trying to make this last, but the increasing pulse in his cock tells you that he’s close, and you don’t tease him; the sound of you sucking him off is obscene in the small room, and his moans turn guttural, almost animalistic. “Y/N, dear heart, if you don’t stop–” He chokes on his sentence as you swirl your tongue 'round his crown, “F-fuck. _Fuck,_ I’m gonna fucking _come._ ”

You almost purr in agreement, sinking your lips back down and taking him as far as you can into his throat as he roars some incoherent form of your name, his body hunched forward as his cock pulses powerfully in your mouth, hot jets of his come spilling almost faster than you can swallow them as he suffers a full-body shudder, panting hotly above you, his fingers so tight in his hair that his knuckles have turned ivory. His orgasm is long and vocal and hot, and you dig your fingertips into his thighs as you coax every crashing wave from him, drawing it out as long as possible, until he slumps back into the chair, utterly had, panting and staring at you with such worship in his eyes that you cannot help but smile as you release him with a parting kiss on the tip of his cock.

His hands are still on his head, you note, as you clean a stray strand of his seed from your lower lip, examining him through the dark veil of your lashes. “Oh, no.” He growls, his words heavy and almost slurred, “You don’t get to look at me like that, all demure. Not whilst you’re licking my come off your pretty lips.”

You giggle, pleased, and use his thighs to push yourself off the ground. “You can move your hands now, Geralt. You did so well.” The praise is nearing a taunt, and he makes a low sound in warning. “I had no idea you’d taste so good. Certainly not like any other man I’ve– _oop!_ ”

It’s your turn to be interrupted now, as the Witcher stands and circles your waist with his huge hands, lifting you like you weigh absolutely nothing at all, manipulating your legs over his shoulders as he backs you into a wall for support, effectively bringing his face directly level with your cunt. “I don’t fucking want to hear about other men.” He tells you, darkly, and you want to see how possessive you can make the rasp of his voice sound until his mouth claims your cunt, and then you forget everything except what he’s doing between your legs.

“ _Oh!_ ” You squeal in delight as his tongue spears you, thrusting into the dripping heat of you, before running flat up your slit to apply pressure and suction against the button of your clit. The rasp of his stubble is sharp against your inner thighs, and contrasts beautifully with the way he laps at your folds. Blindly, you reach out to grip the wall sconce beside you with one hand, and twist the other into his long hair. He grunts at the sensation as you tug, spurred, and begins to suckle your clit harder, lips trapping it, one of his hands coming between your legs to tease your opening, the other pressing against your stomach so you are properly anchored against the wall.

“Ger- _alt,_ ” The whine leaves your lips as he enters your pussy with one thick finger, pumping it in time with the movement of his mouth, his tongue strong and relentless against you, and you can’t help but rock your hips as much as the restrictive position will allow, mindlessly trying to get more – more of _what_ , you don’t know, but you just don’t want him to ever stop what he’s doing. He plays your body like an instrument that only he knows the music for, growling against your clit when your walls begin a tell-tale flutter around his pistoning finger. He adds a second and curls them come-hither, putting pressure on the rough nerves inside of you, steadily stroking as he swirls his tongue in circles 'round your swollen nub. “Please, _please,_ fuck, oh Gods,” You chant, still trying to ride his face, but he does not change his rhythm; it’s steady and perfect and very soon you feel your entire body beginning to jerk unbidden as the pleasure crescendos to a point.

“Yes! Ohf _uck-_ fuck yes, _Geralt!_ ” It doesn’t matter that your scream is barely understandable as a language, because your orgasm hits you with a force that seems impossible, making your thighs shake 'round his head as your pussy clamps down on his fingers hand enough to push them from your body, a wash of your juices soaking his chin and running down his neck as he laps at you, still rumbling that low noise, teasing every jerk and spasm from you like puppetry, toying with the aftershocks until you have nothing left, glad for the support of his hand, because you are boneless.

“Hmmmm.” He purrs, apparently satisfied with your reaction; he lifts you from the wall as if you are the most precious treasure in the world, and carries you to the bed, laying you upon it. Blearily, you blink at him; his chin is glistening with evidence of your pleasure, and his teeth are pearl-glints as he smiles at you.

“I didn’t even know I could _do_ that.” You inform him, too dazed to care that you’re probably fuelling his ego; of course you’d come before, but squirting was something new. He chuckled roughly.

“I’m glad to help you discover a new talent.” He tells you, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste fucking delicious too, by the way.”

“Mmmm.” You acknowledge, curling into his side, uncaring that you’re sweat-slick. His body feels good against your own. Somewhere in the back of your head, you remember your taunt about endurance; you know he’s hard again, but he’s not demanding of you. In fact, he’s happy to let you use his bicep as a pillow as you bask in the afterglow of what transpired.

“Y/N?”

“Hmm?” Words were difficult for you to navigate.

“Is it.. can I stay here with you? Until tomorrow?”

You want to make some joke about him using you for your bed, or about how you don’t let men stay the night, but you find that you don’t really want to. You don’t want to hide behind your sharp wit this time. “If you’re not here when I wake up, I’ll hunt you down, Geralt of Rivvv…ia.” The last syllable is barely spoken before you’re out, completely spent.

He smiles, and presses a kiss to your crown. “I’ll be here.” The promise is made to the darkness of the room and your even, slow breaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate comments! You can find my ramblings on Tumblr, my username is witchernonsense. :}


End file.
